


Sunflower

by jvo_taiski



Series: Universal Constant [1]
Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, curly pining, it's just really cute, they're both 18/19 in this, they're both lacking common sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27663347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Ponyboy Curtis has just come back from a semester of college and Ponyboy Curtis is tall now, almost as tall as him, and Ponyboy Curtis has a pierced ear and is wearing jeans so tight that it probably says they’re illegal in the Bible. Curly Shepard feels like he’s been run over by a bus.AKA Curly and Pony and their questionable life decisions
Relationships: Ponyboy Curtis/Curly Shepard
Series: Universal Constant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2182284
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	Sunflower

**Author's Note:**

> so i reread the outsiders and ngl Ponyboy's kind of an asshole  
> they're both adorable in this fic though
> 
> also, bear with me and let me just say: Ponyboy in a crop top
> 
> [EDIT 25/02/2021: fuck all, but I put it into a series so watch out for a sequel]

Curly’s always known it, really. It’s something he’s never taken the time to acknowledge before, but he’s always had it in the back of his mind, and if you’d asked, he would have been able to give an answer without hesitation—it’s a universal constant, just like Coca-Cola is better than Pepsi and only assholes drive tuff cars.

‘It’, of course, being Ponyboy Curtis, and how unfairly pretty he’s always been. Even if Curly’s never really thought about it, because that wouldn’t be something friends do, never said it, because Ponyboy’s tough and would’ve socked him, and never even acknowledged it to himself, not really.

But it’s been a while—just long enough for Curly to forget said universal constant and for the full force of it to hit him in the face and stun him speechless for a second when he sets eyes on Pony again. It’s a _huh_ feeling, him wondering dimly when the hell that happened, followed immediately by an _oh,_ when he realises it’s always been there.

Ponyboy Curtis has just come back from a semester of college and Ponyboy Curtis is tall now, almost as tall as him, and Ponyboy Curtis has a pierced ear and is wearing jeans so tight that it probably says they’re illegal in the Bible. Curly Shepard feels like he’s been run over by a bus.

He’s still got the same crease between his brows that looks like he’s thinking very hard about something probably very stupid, like clouds or poetry, and his eyes are still the green colour Pony used to try say were grey and his lips are still pouty and beautifully kissable. And fuck _those jeans—_

“Gee, Baby Curtis,” grins Curly, shaking himself out of it and sidling up behind him, slinging a casual arm over his shoulders. Ponyboy jumps. “Look who’s gotten big.”

“Jesus fuck Curls,” he complains, swatting Curly’s hand away. “You pretty much scared the shit outta me.”

“Aw, c’mon now, Ponykid, aren’t they teaching you good English and that in college?”

“Ain’t mean I have to use it.”

Curly laughs, and messes up his grease-slicked hair as they set off walking the familiar road back to the Curtis house.

***

So it happens like this. Curly’s ten and Pony’s nine and they’re in the same class at school. Ponyboy’s good at it and Curly’s not, so he calls Ponyboy a nerd, then Ponyboy hits him and they start brawling and golly if the kid isn’t actually kinda strong. They get sent to the Principal’s office together and Curly’s lip hurts where Pony’s elbowed him, but he can definitely see teeth marks on Ponyboy’s forearm so it’s fine.

He thinks Tim will probably be proud of him for starting a fight and thinks his mama might actually look at him if she has to come collect him from the office so really, life’s a gas. Principal Hopkins yells himself hoarse for a solid half an hour, and Curly sneaks a look sideways, at Ponyboy, who’s staring absently at the clock.

Very slowly, very carefully, Curly moves his leg sideways and pokes Ponyboy’s foot. He jerks sideways, startled, and Principal Hopkins glares at him suspiciously. Curly tries doing what he sees Angela doing sometimes—he makes his eyes all big and wide and innocent and blinks up at him. For a second, the Principal’s hawkish glare slides over to Ponyboy and Curly nearly gets smug, but then the glare is back before he can even blink.

Curly sneaks another look at Ponyboy and nearly splutters indignantly—the kid’s doing the same thing as him, but better. He’s also got his eyes all big and innocent, but his eyes are green and wide and he’s even sticking his bottom lip out and he’s better than Curly even at this and maybe it’s not fair but Curly’s gotta respect it.

Principal Hopkins looks away again, so Curly eases his foot towards Pony and does it again, but harder. This time, he doesn’t react. So he does it a third time, and Pony kicks him back and that hurts like a motherfucker because it’s right on the shins but Curly bites his tongue and doesn’t make a noise.

He’s about to get him back, get him real good, when the Principal stands up abruptly, casting his glare over the both of them.

“You. Stay here. Don’t move. If you’re a toe out of place when I get back—and I mean it, a toe—then it’ll be even worse for you than it is already.”

“Yes Sir,” says Ponyboy, just a touch too earnestly. The Principal leaves with a final suspicious glance over his shoulder and that’s it, Curly kicks Ponyboy so hard that he falls off his chair and yelps.

They’re all over each other in seconds, squabbling on the floor of the Principal’s office, Ponyboy’s hair in his hands and his fist connecting with his ribs until there’s a _crash_ and a giant stack of files comes cascading down from the desk, all over the both of them, a folder with particularly pointy corners landing squarely on Curly’s head.

There’s a stunned silence, and Curly notices the shell-shocked expression on Pony’s face, his mouth ajar and those big eyes wide. And that’s it, Curly’s lost it completely—he bursts into laughter, so rowdy that tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and one corner of Pony’s mouth quirks up, then the next, and he’s laughing as well and Curly feels giddy.

That’s how the Principal finds them later, on the floor and howling like maniacs, with Pony’s dad and Curly’s ma in tow. Pony goes very red and looks at the ground when the Principal screams himself purple, and Curly tries very hard not to laugh, and he can tell Mr Curtis is also struggling to keep his face straight.

Curly doesn’t even mind so much when his mother whacks him later, with indifferent eyes, because he thinks he’s just made a friend and that’s real tuff.

***

About a year or so later, Curly gets sent to a reformatory for the first time, for a month, and it sucks. He tells Ponyboy all about it, and Ponyboy gets indignant on his behalf, and gets that look like he’s thinking too hard about things that can’t be changed. So Curly climbs a telephone pole because someone’s tossed a battered jacket up there and it wasn’t there yesterday—and hey, Curly’s curious. Maybe there’s still a wallet in it.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea in the world because he does get the jacket but he also falls off. But Curly’s never been the brightest and Pony’s always just made it 3 times worse.

It hurts so bad, fiery-hot and more pain than he’s ever felt racing up his arm, but he doesn’t scream or cry even if that’s only because he’s too stunned to do anything much. Pony looks very scared, pale and shocked, and Curly doesn’t even want to think about what he looks like.

For one wild moment, he actually thinks he’s dying, but Ponyboy holds his hand (not on the broken side) and well, that’s kind of nice.

***

There are different levels of feelings, Curly knows that. It’s all a bit complicated and tangled but he thinks he can make pretty good heads and tails of it most of the time.

So there are the easy feelings, like Angela is his twin sister and Tim is his big brother and he likes the both of them real good, even if affection isn’t really a thing in the Shepard house. Then there are his friends, the members of his gang, and he thinks yeah, they’re cool and all.

Then there are the girls and guys that make him think _huh,_ and even the ones he strings around sometimes because they’re a bit of fun. And then—there’s Ponyboy. And that’s where everything stops making sense and unravels itself and maybe it’s because just staring at the kid makes him lose a couple of braincells and to be honest, Curly’s not got a lot of those to spare.

He tugs a little at Ponyboy’s rusty-coloured hair and his head lolls backwards, fixing Curly with an upside-down glare.

“What?”

Curly tugs a little harder, a stupid grin on his face, and Ponyboy mumbles “Quit it,” as he rolls over onto his stomach on the couch, head and arms draped over the armrest.

And there it is again, one of those moments that makes all the words float out of his mind and funnily enough, Pony just happens to be the cause yet again because _fuck,_ if the kid crush he used to have isn’t hitting him full in the face again.

Hell, he thought he’d gotten over that a long time ago, somewhere in between getting chucked in the reformatory for the third time and coming out to find Ponyboy going with some Middle America chick from school.

“What?” gripes Pony, again.

“Nothin’. Just like your hair, thas’ all. It’s soft when you ain’t got so much grease in it.”

“Huh. Well, I gotta have the grease in it normally ‘cos it doesn’t look too tuff without.”

“I know, I know. I like it either way.”

“What’s your hair look like without the grease?” asks Pony, reaching out to run a hand through it. It feels nice, so Curly closes his eyes.

“You don’t wanna know,” chuckles Curly, but Pony doesn’t stop running his fingers through his hair, separating out the curls, nails gently scraping his scalp. “My hair’s way too curly, man. Looks like a rat’s nest in the mornings.”

“It looked alright without grease when we were kids.”

“Yeah, that’s cos I used to cut it short on the sides and Tim’d always brush the top for me.”

They lapse into comfortable silence, and he thinks Pony might’ve fallen asleep because the hand in his hair stills and slips away to rest somewhere next to his face, thumb tickling his cheekbone. It’s warm and light and The Rolling Stones’ _Ruby Tuesday_ is playing softly from the beaten-down turntable in the corner.

Presently, there’s a clatter when someone undoes the latch on the door and strolls in—it’s Darry.

For some reason, he frowns when he sees Curly sitting next to the couch, while Ponyboy takes a nap. Hell, he even looks kind of wary for whatever reason—Darry’s never minded him before; he knows that Curly and Pony have been friends for years, knows that even though Tim will never admit it, he’s low-key intimidated by Darry—the Shepard gang haven’t fucked with the Curtis gang outright, not since they got their asses whipped four years ago.

“What’s good, Curtis?”

“Change the record,” he just says. “However much Soda n’ Pony play it, I can’t stand the Rolling Stones.”

“Why?” asks Curly. “You prefer the Beatles or summat?”

Darry snorts, but doesn’t say anything more as he makes for the kitchen. Whatever. He’s always been a bit funny around his younger brothers.

Curly wonders why anyone wouldn’t like The Rolling Stones, then wonders why he _does_ like the Stones. He never listened to them consciously, they were just always on in the Curtis house. And maybe that’s why, he supposes, as the first notes of _Miss Amanda Jones_ start up. He associates them with lazy days and laughs and Ponyboy dancing and, well, if that’s the only reason he likes them then it’s not anybody’s business.

The record finishes, so Curly restarts it, Darry be damned.

***

“So, Baby Curtis,” grins Curly. “I bought you something.”

Ponyboy snorts. “You mean you lifted it.”

“Naw,” he bumps his shoulder. “I’m a changed man, Ponyboy. My days of shoplifting are long behind me.”

Ponyboy stares at him like he’s lost the plot. “You what?”

“The reformatory changed me real good,” says Curly solemnly. “Taught me to be a good law-abiding citizen and that.”

“You jumped a soc kid yesterday,” accuses Ponyboy.

“Well yeah, but I ain’t stolen nothing recently. One step at a time, and all that.”

Pony snorts and shakes his head like he can’t believe him, but Curly can see the hints of a smile beginning around the corners of his mouth. “When did you change so much?”

“It’s a reformatory, man,” says Curly, mock-earnestly. “That’s what you do in there. You reform.”

“Bullshit.” Ponyboy folds his arms and Curly resists the urge to pull his collar straight. “There’s no way them things actually work.”

“Well, no,” says Curly, shrugging nonchalantly. “They don’t. But if they did anything at all, they taught me how to not to get caught. Tim’s real proud.”

“I’ll bet.”

“And I’ve finally accepted that I ain’t no good at nicking stuff, so I’m leaving that to Two-Bit.”

“You’ve finally wised up, you have,” laughs Pony, and the sound makes Curly feel irrationally light. “Well, then. What did you buy with your own hard-working honest-to-god cash?”

In answer, Curly reaches into his pocket and pulls out some crumpled-up yellow tissue paper that used to be in a box, but which Angela stole to keep her own earrings. Curly waits, with that stupid grin on his face, as Pony unwraps it with no small amount of suspicion.

“You bought me a fucking earring,” he says, slowly, and Curly bursts into laughter at the look on Ponyboy’s face, and watches as his stunned expression slowly melts into a grudging smile. “Glory, Curly, you really have changed, huh?”

“D’you like it?” Curly asks, not sure if he’s asking about the earring or the change.

“Yeah,” says Pony, honestly. “Yeah, I really do.”

***

“Do you remember?” mumbles Pony, leaning back on Curly a little bit. “When we were kids. That time when we played chicken.”

His eyes are open and he’s staring heavy-lidded at the sky, which is just beginning to turn pink with dusk. Curly’s absently drawing little circles on his arm with his finger as they lie in the lot.

“With the cigarettes?” he asks.

“Yeah, with the cigarettes.”

“Of course, man. Why, you wanna go again?”

Pony snorts and flicks the ash off his cigarette. “Hell, no. I still got the fuckin’ scar, and we both know that if we try again, neither of us are gonna holler. Jus’ like last time.”

“Sounds like you chickening out, Curtis.”

“Aw, shut up Kid Curls, I’m just not that stupid anymore, and you ain’t gonna quit so one of us has gotta have a head.”

“You never know, I might’ve chickened out.”

“No way.”

“Yes, way,” insists Curly. “I ain’t so dumb anymore either. Because I know that if we did go again, you wouldn’t holler either and I can’t have your pansy ass dying on me.”

“Hey!” whines Ponyboy, shoving him sideways. It makes his earring catch the light, and with a funny little start, Curly realises it’s the one he bought him.

“Aw c’mon, it’s like you said, one of us has gotta have a head,” he insists.

“And it ain’t you.”

“Well it ain’t you either, so where does that leave us?”

Pony just smiles again, and leans back on the concrete, stubbing his cigarette out on the ground and letting the last bit of smoke spill from his lips. Curly gets an insane urge to throw everything to the wind and just kiss him, but it’s dumb and he’s content so he just flops down and hands Pony a beer.

“Lifted these from the store earlier.”

“Thought you said your days of stealing were over.”

“Well,” says Curly, leaning up on one elbow earnestly. “In my defence, when I said that, I genuinely believed it. But the shopkeeper was dumb enough to leave the till and it was too good to resist, easy as pie—even _I_ didn’t get caught and we both know my track record with liquor stores.”

He pokes Ponyboy when he huffs a laugh. “Y’know, Curly, you smile a lot more these days.”

“Thanks?”

“I like it, man. You ain’t so angry anymore, and you ain’t so much of an asshole.”

“Yeah, I guess,” says Curly, wondering if that might have something to do with Pony. “Guess we grew up a bit.”

Then, three seconds later— “Hey, Curly. I bet you can’t get that car to start up.”

They both turn to scrutinise the old wreck abandoned in the corner of the lot not two days ago. It’s definitely seen better days but Curly reckons that if he weren’t so caught up with his girl these days, Steve Randle from the Curtis gang would have already fired it up and taken it for a spin, and probably woulda won a drag race in it too.

Curly’s managed to get a job at a gas station now too, after Tim pointed out that he was 18 and fresh outta the reformatory and kind of needed some work—and what the hell, he’s not too bad at the whole cars thing.

“For sure, Baby Curtis,” he sits up and tosses his empty beer can. “But only if you hop in for a ride.”

The bumper’s busted and the seats have been ripped out and there’s no doors but the engine is a simple fix and the tyres are only kinda flat and, well, Ponyboy bet him he wouldn’t be able to start it—and now it’s been revved up and Ponyboy’s laughing like a maniac as they manage to crank up the radio and Led Zeppelin’s _Good Times, Bad Times_ crackles to life at full volume as Curly yanks the handbrake and sends the Ford screeching around a corner of the lot on two wheels.

Pony swears colourfully and yeah, college definitely hasn’t stamped anything out of him like Curly was scared of before—he wonders what the other pretentious fucks in his classes think of him, wonders whether Pony goes to lectures with his hair greased back and a smoke hanging from his lips.

He looks free, he looks alive and his eyes are bright and teeth flashing in the dying light as Curly stamps on the gas pedal again and the tyres screech in protest. The dusky air brings a bit of breeze to the balmy summer air, carrying with it the smell of wood smoke and pasta sauce from someone’s dinner to mingle with the acrid stench of burning rubber and gasoline.

It’s somehow better than everything Curly’s ever done for kicks, getting him higher than any drug he’s tried, and maybe it’s just because that’s his best friend next to him and it’s wild and it’s all just like how it was when they were kids—his blood is tingling and sizzling, racing through his veins and his heart is beating like it’s trying to jump straight out his chest, out of its confines.

Then, there’s a stuttering, choking noise from somewhere in the car and Ponyboy yelps and Curly slams the brakes but nothing happens, and to be honest, Curly dimly realises they shouldn’t have expected anything else as he spins the wheel as quickly as he can and the Ford skids and drifts a good 100 feet, with the both of them holding on for dear life as it careens into a fence and sends the both of them jolting out of their seats, scrabbling to hold onto doors that aren’t there.

There’s a small silence, and Curly hasn’t come down from the high yet—his pulse is still pumping and his blood rushing incoherently. Pony’s still got that wild grin on his face. Curly distractedly thinks he looks kind of like his older brother Soda when he smiles with all his teeth like that.

Curly takes a deep, shuddering breath, blood pounding in his ears.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!”

They both jump. Curly’s big brother runs into sight, looking absolutely livid.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , are you guys tryna fuckin’ die? What the hell?”

“Aw, Tim,” says Curly, surprised his voice comes out steady but knowing he’s got a lopsided grin stretched out on his face. “It’s nice and all, when you act like you care ‘bout us.”

“You shut your trap, kid. I never caught _Angela_ doin’ anything as flying fucking stupid—”

“C’mon, Tim, you jack cars all the time!”

“Yeah, but I don’t crash ‘em! You kids, man, you two are god-fucking-awful for each other, I swear—it’s like whatever common sense the two of you have cancels out when you idiots are left alone—wait ‘til I tell Darry ‘bout this.”

But Curly just bursts out laughing, and yeah, he does smile a heck of a lot more these days and he’s going to hold onto these moments for as long as possible, maybe forever if he can. He’s still dizzy when he finally hops out the trashed car and ruffles Pony’s hair because _yeah,_ they _are_ god-awful for each other; they’re like flint and steel together, and with just about as much sense.

***

It’s a Friday night and they’re sneaking in the Nightly Double drive-in movie again, just like the old times. Someone mended the gap in the fence a long time ago but there’s a tree around the back that makes climbing over a hoot, even if it is a bit more inconvenient than crawling under the good old-fashioned way. Curly doesn’t even know the name of the film they’re seeing but the air smells like night, like pine and something smoky and something sweet, and Pony’s hair catches the light like copper.

If Curly squints, it could be kind of like a date.

Pony jumps up, saying he’s gonna go grab a drink if Curly wants, but Curly declines. He comes back with a cup and some popcorn and even though he said he didn’t want one, he drapes himself over the back of Pony’s seat and tucks his chin on Pony’s shoulder expectantly.

To his surprise, Pony doesn’t even shove him off—instead, he absently holds the drink up to his mouth and Curly’s really not complaining because Pony smells kinda nice, like laundry powder and fresh tobacco and buttered popcorn. He takes a sip of whatever Ponyboy’s got but immediately grimaces.

“The hell is that, Baby Curtis?”

“It’s a Pepsi, the hell did you think it was?”

“You dumbass, why would you buy a Pepsi? Everyone knows Coca-Cola’s better.”

“You, Curly Shepard, are a freak and a heathen.”

“You getting’ mouthy with me, Baby Curtis?” he asks, mock-indignantly, draping an arm over his shoulder to flick the bottom of his cup when he tries to take a sip. Pony chokes on it and the fizzy brown liquid stains the front of his T-shirt.

Curly laughs and brings his other arm over Pony’s shoulder, but swears something awful when Pony elbows his ribs and sloshes some of the stuff into his face.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ regret that, kid.”

“Watch who you’re calling kid,” he quips, slyly giving him the side-eye and wielding the drink like a weapon. “I’ll bet I’m stronger than you.”

“You really wanna bet? I’m still two inches taller, you little—”

“Yeah, but you’re also a fuckin’ beanpole—”

The coke gets discarded somewhere on the floor as the two of them crash over the row of chairs, and maybe they get some funny looks from some soc girls up front but whatever. He doesn’t want to hit Ponyboy, not really, so he tries tickling him instead and it works, for the most part, only now the problem is he’s got a lapful of a wiggling Ponyboy and well. He’s a teenage boy, for Christ’s sake.

“Ah, fuck,” gasps Ponyboy, writhing around, his cheeks a high red colour, and that’s really not doing wonders for the problem between Curly’s legs. “You lay off, Curls, or I’ll belt you to next Tuesday.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he retorts, but eases up anyway, sliding into his seat again and hoping it’s too dark to see his lap. Ponyboy smiles fondly and their shoulders brush and stay together like that for the rest of the film.

***

“You dress like a fuckin’ queer,” Curly realises, with a sudden start. And it’s true, as well.

He knows Ponyboy’s started wearing those sinfully tight jeans since college, the ones that make his ass look real nice, and he knows he cuffs them, always has. He’s also gotten used to all those fucking braided leather bracelets all up his wrists (hell, he even forced Curly to put one on and Curly hasn’t taken it off since) and even the earring, that infernal little dangly sunflower earring, glinting gold in the sun, that Curly bought him as kind-of a joke but that he actually wears.

But this, this is drawing a line. Ponyboy Curtis is wearing a fucking tiny white crop top that floats somewhere just below his pecs and holy _fuck,_ Curly can see everything—those shoulders that are actually pretty built, and that Curly kinda wants to hold onto, lean abs and— _fuck, Curly’s actually screwed—_ even the thin trail of dark hair from his bellybutton that peeks below the waistband of his jeans. And that’s really not fair at all, none of it.

“There something wrong with it?” snaps Pony, defensively, and Curly gets kinda distracted looking at the sharp V-line dipping below his belt and when he tries tearing his gaze away, he gets caught up staring at way that gold earring grazes the corner of his jaw.

“No,” he says, blinking once and looking back up to meet his eyes. He tries unsticking his throat. “But wait—you’re actually a queer?”

“Yeah,” says Ponyboy, giving him a funny look. “Wasn’t it obvious? I thought it was obvious.”

And to be honest, yeah. It was. Even Darry’s funny looks are making sense now—maybe he thought Curly might’ve hurt Ponyboy for being gay, or maybe he even thought they were dating. Because, yeah, come to think about it, it really is obvious that Pony’s queer.

But Curly’s actually really fucking dense and he’d have thought Pony would’ve at least figured that out by now.

“Oh, come on,” Pony says, sounding exasperated. “I literally told you about Chris—”

“Hey,” whines Curly. “That ain’t fair, you weren’t specific, I thought you meant Chris like Christine.”

“Je- _sus_ Christ, man, what even goes on up there?” He knocks on the side of Curly’s head and rolls his eyes all exaggerated-like.

Curly scowls and shoves him good-naturedly. “Hey, you watch it Baby Curtis.”

Pony only grins and asks him if he wants to try on the crop top and yes, actually, Curly kind of does, even if it’s just to watch Pony take it off.

***

Early morning light pours into the open windows and a light breeze that ruffles the curtains sweeps into the kitchen, bringing in the smell of fresh-mown grass and baking bread. It isn’t a smell they normally get in these parts so Curly savours it.

He’s just stayed the night on the Curtis couch and he really needs to get to work or his boss’ll kill him for being late again—but of course, Ponyboy, like the asshole and bad influence he is, offers him breakfast and if it’s chocolate cake, like it always is at the Curtis house, then Curly really can’t say no.

Ponyboy’s shirtless as he dances around the kitchen while ( _I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction_ blasts from the record in the front room. That’s Sodapop’s favourite song, and has been since it came out four years ago, and Curly only knows that because Pony still talks about Soda all the time.

It’s nice, real nice. Ponyboy never used to be this uninhibited. Curly still remembers days after his parents died when Pony would frown at the table and Soda would be the only one who could drag him to his feet and send him spinning across the room. But now, Curly really can’t take his eyes away from the rusty-haired boy in front of him and—

It hits him like a sucker punch—he’s so far gone for Ponyboy that it’s laughable.

“Hey, Ponyboy,” he blurts out, even though it’s a dumb idea (but since when has Curly been known for his good ideas?), because Pony’s all kinds of gorgeous and honestly, Curly’s at the end of his tether. “I kind of really want to kiss you.”

Pony stops dead.

It’s blunt, sure, but hey—Curly’s never had much tact. And besides, he is pretty sure that all the stuff they’ve been doing together—joined at the hip since Ponyboy came back for summer—all the movie nights and laughter and lazing around—that could count as flirting. Right?

But Pony’s sort of glaring at him now and Curly’s final few braincells have just gone and died because he’s kind of really nervous but Pony’s still kind of fucking hot when he’s ticked off.

“No? Never mind,” says Curly quickly. “Forget I ever opened my mouth, imma head out—”

“Are you only saying that ‘cos you know I’m queer now?” accuses Ponyboy, narrowing his eyes.

“Well yeah,” says Curly, and he can’t help rolling his eyes. “I would’ve kept it to myself if I thought you liked chicks.”

“So you’re not just sayin’ things like that because you think I’ll be easy?”

“What?” he replies, surprised. “No. Why would I say somethin’ like that if I didn’t mean it?”

“You know,” says Pony, and it would’ve been almost conversational if his eyes weren’t still narrowed. Curly gulps. “Just because I’m queer, it doesn’t mean I want to snog your ugly mug.” He frowns, still suspicious and kind of defensive.

Curly stammers and blushes for once in his life, gaze darting all over the place. He gets the feeling that he’s done something wrong but he can’t for the life of him figure out what it is as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “I might, uh—maybe I uh—listen, man, you’re just kind of really fucking cute and well, I—”

And to his shock, Ponyboy actually starts laughing so Curly scowls and blushes a deeper red. At least it doesn’t sound mean, though—it’s mostly incredulous.

“You’re blushing,” he says.

“Shut it punk,” he scowls back, feeling like he could fry an egg on his face. “Do you want to, like, get dinner sometime?”

That, at least, shuts up his laughing even if it doesn’t take that grin off his face, the one that makes him look like a loon. “Curly? Did you hit your head or summat? Am I really hearing this right—Curly Shepard’s gonna take me to dinner?”

Curly shoves his hands in his pockets and scowls at his shoes, muttering indistinct threats under his breath.

“You ever done that before, Curls? You ever taken a guy or a girl out to dinner before you tried getting into their pants?”

“No,” mutters Curly.

“Man, you’re going soft for sure,” teases Pony, and Curly scowls again and jumps up, playfully tackling him to the floor, mostly to try and hide how red he’s gotten.

Pony’s still laughing when they go crashing to the ground, ignoring Curly when he tells him to, “Shut it, punk,” but he eventually stills when Curly manages to pin him to the floor by the wrists. And he’s still got that ear-splitting grin on, the one that does funny things to Curly’s heart even if it is fluttering like a small bird. He glares down at the boy pinned beneath him, disgruntled.

And Pony must see something there, something very vulnerable and very real, because he finally softens his smile and looks up with those wide green eyes that make Curly’s breath catch in his throat. “Yeah, Curly. I’d like that a lot. I’d like you to take me out.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause and Curly feels like he’s hanging in the moment, suspended in awe, eyes skittering all the way over Pony’s gentle smile and trying to imprint every little detail in his mind and simultaneously trying to find any trace that he might be joking. He feels like he’s risen straight out of his body and like he’s watching everything from the sky, sound all funny and distant in his head.

Curly hasn’t even realised how long he’s just been lying there and staring like a loon until Pony quips, “Cat got your tongue?” and that infernal smirk reappears on his face.

“You shut up,” says Curly, giddy with it, and his heart must’ve finally managed to beat its way out of its cage, so he ducks his head down and presses a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips and he tastes like chocolate cake and everything’s perfect.

He feels Ponyboy sigh against his lips and when they part, he’s flushed so pretty from such a short kiss and his mouth is a little open and _fuck,_ finally, the little shit’s finally speechless. Curly just grins wide and runs a thumb over his face, pausing to curl his fingers around his cheek and flick the stupid sunflower earring. It’s beautiful, _he’s_ beautiful, and Curly thinks he might want to stay here forever.

He really, really wants to kiss him again but, well, Curly’s got responsibilities now and he’s going to be late enough that he might get fired if he doesn’t hurry his ass up so he scrambles to his feet and leaves Ponyboy gaping at him speechless from the floor.

“See ya tonight, Baby Curtis,” he says, pausing and looking around at the door. Pony still looks a little shell-shocked.

“Yeah,” says Pony. “Yeah, I guess I will.”

***

Curly nearly laughs out loud when he gets outside. It’s a beautifully light feeling, the blooming hope that maybe him and Pony have a chance of being one of those universal constants that always exist, and the thought that maybe, just maybe, that’s what they were always meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> on a real if you think pepsi is better than coca cola fr what are you doing with your life??
> 
> i think i'll do a second chapter or a sequel (so the ratings don't change) with a date and some sex or smth at some point so look out for that <3
> 
> thanks for reading, drop kudos if you liked it and as always, comments and constructive criticism are appreciated. 
> 
> Jx


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